


The Shortest Distance is a Straight Line

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Default name MC, F/M, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Interrupted Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Mammon likes it when Yuki is direct. Mostly.
Relationships: Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 193





	The Shortest Distance is a Straight Line

**Author's Note:**

> Guess which idiots aren't allowed alone in the kitchen together, anymore.

"Ya can't do that!" Long fingers reach over your shoulder, pluck the spice straight out of your hands. "It's too spicy, Levi won't be able ta eat it. And I dunno about humans either."

"Oops. Thanks, Mammon."

He shrugs, like it's no big deal, but the spread of his grin is too wide. "What would ya do without me, huh?"

It's technically _your_ turn to cook dinner tonight, but Mammon is in here anyway, keeping you company during one of those few opportunities where you won't be instantly accosted by his brothers. (Save for Beel, who you've roped Mammon into bouncing out. You need to feed the rest of the brothers _something_ ). He's mostly been standing over your shoulder, a little too close, but his reflexes are too fast for him to really be in the way.

You'll allow it.

"I'd be a _mess_ without you," you respond, overly dramatic. He flushes anyway, treating your teasing like some confession. (It is). "Yeah! So be grateful that you have the Great Mammon lookin' out for ya!"

He's so cute.

You slap the flank of the pork-ish creature, your hand absolutely _covered_ in oil and spices. It's hard to say if you're doing this properly, but Satan has considerately left you his favourite cookbook, so you've resigned yourself to the mercy of paper recipes. At any rate, it _looks_ like food.

You nudge the page of the book with your elbow, and Mammon flips it for you without prompting. "Thanks," you mumble, trying to read the next steps. _Take the vanilla bat syrup infusion—_

Vanilla what? Were you supposed to make that? You frown, trying to turn the page with your elbow before Mammon makes a little clicking sound in your direction and does it for you. Your gratitude is significantly more distracted. _Crap_. You were supposed to make that first.

"Mammon where's the bat oil?" you ask, shimmying over to the sink. You sort of slam the handles with your forearms until water comes streaming out. Ugh, everything feels so _oily_.

"Oh is it time for the vanilla thing?" Mammon shuffles to the side, grabs a large metal bowl and plops it down beside you. There are streaks of something not quite mixed, but otherwise it looks passable. You stare down at it, uncomprehending.

"I did it while you were slapping the terror swine," Mammon explains, gesturing to the giant hock of meat on the table. He notices your slack-jawed expression and frowns. "Hey, I can follow instructions jus' fine, thanks! Better'n you, apparently."

But you're too touched to be offended. "You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Mammon."

"Well. Don't get used to it," he huffs, already blushing.

 _Adorable_. You grin at him, ruin the moment thoroughly by following up with, "Needed something to do while I was beating your meat, huh?"

"Y-You! What? C'mon, you're starting to sound like Asmo," he sputters. "And this is _everyone's_ meat."

"Sorry," you snicker. That's not quite the rejoinder he was hoping for, and he can tell if the sudden scowl on his face is any indication.

You pick up the bowl and fill up the baster. Drag it over to the swine and . . . Where do you stick this thing? The recipe probably says, but when you turn you note that it's notably far away.

You jab the end of the baster into the centre of the meat and release. That's probably fine.

"So," Mammon says, sauntering over. "Ya done yet?"

"Yeah, just gotta get this in the oven." You drop your centre of gravity and try to pull at the tray. It doesn't budge. Flex your fingers and try again.

Your face is turning red.

"Ha, ya alright there, buddy?" Mammon sounds like he's laughing, just off to the side so you can't see him in your periphery. Cheater.

"Just fine, thanks," you huff.

"Alright. I was gonna help you out, if ya asked real nice, but if you can do it by yourself . . ."

You actually _were_ going to ask him, but if he's going to be obnoxious about it everyone can just starve. Lucifer won't be pleased, of course, but you're willing to die for the sake of being petty. 

You bend your knees a little more and try again.

The entire tray goes sliding over the oil-slicked surface and directly towards your face. You brace yourself for impact, but. There's no pain.

It must have killed you instantly.

"Oi! Be more careful!" Mammon. Of course. You've made pacts with every brother, where did you think you were going to end up? "If ya needed help ya should've just asked."

You reach up and pat your face carefully. Intact. "Thanks, Mammon." Your attitude has evaporated in the face of your miraculous survival. "Sorry to make you do all this when it's my turn to cook."

He shrugs, which is particularly impressive when he's got what must be five hundred pounds of meat in his arms. "I figured you'd have trouble with this part. Beel woulda helped ya, but . . ."

"Thanks," you say again.

He slides it into the brick oven while you pretend to supervise. Wipes his hands off on his jeans and turns to you, looking proud of a task that you don't think took him any real effort to complete. "So, what now?"

"Now we wait."

" _We?_ " He frowns. "I got stuff to do, I can't wait around all day. How long's this thing supposed to take, anyway?"

"An hour. I was going to sit and do my homework while it cooks."

"Why'd you gotta stay here if it's gonna take an hour anyway?" He asks, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Come on, you can hang out with me instead."

"I thought you had stuff to do?"

"I mean, I _do_ , but I guess I can make time for ya."

"How generous," you mutter, rolling your eyes fondly. "But I should probably stay here. Once Beel smells the meat cooking, someone's going to need to be here to stop him."

"Tch. So responsible." But he doesn't remove his arm. Instead he leans back against the edge of the counter, pulling out his D.D.D. with one hand.

You're tempted to say something about the way he's got you tucked against his side, but judging by the increasingly red tint on his face, it would be fairly safe to assume he's already more than aware. You wonder, vaguely, how flushed he'll get before it becomes too much and he's forced to let go.

You sling an arm around his waist and snuggle in. Oh, _that's_ a pretty colour.

You kind of want to kiss it.

"Are you offering to keep me company?" you ask. Your fingers are pressing just below the hem of his shirt. His skin is so _warm_. 

"I mean, how're ya gonna beat back Beel on your own?" He's trying to subtly wiggle away from your wandering touch. Little jerking motions, more instinct than decision.

Wait.

Is Mammon _ticklish?_

You make an exploratory pass with just your fingertips. He does something that looks like the beginnings of a belly dance, accompanied by a strange hitching breath. Oh _hells_ he _is_. You latch against him, delighted, ducking under his flailing arms as he squeals, gasping. His face is turning _so_ red, tears are starting at the corner of his eyes and he looks so _cute_ . . .

You finally stop when he catches you with the edge of his sharp, bony elbow. Directly in the ribs. "Oof!"

"Serves ya right!" He says, but he's hovering at your side anyway, concerned. You wave him off with a laugh. "Fine, I concede. Pass me my D.D.D.."

He drops it into your waiting hand, a careful arm's distance away.

You roll your eyes and hold up your right hand, palm out. Solemn. "I promise not to tickle you anymore today, alright? You don't have to stand so far."

"I dunno if I can trust that . . ." he says warily. There's still a conspicuous distance between you, and when you take a step forwards he takes one back.

"Fine. if I go back on my word you can have that limited edition diamond tipped pen that I won in the store lottery last week."

"Sweet," he says, planting himself immediately back at your side. You can't decide if he actually trusts you, or he's hoping that your more devious nature is going to win out so he can swipe his prize. In any case the end result is the same, so you guess it doesn't really matter.

You grab the arm between you and drape it over your shoulders. He flushes but doesn't move away. "Wanna cuddle up to the Great Mammon, huh?"

"Yup," you say easily. "Plus your bony arm was digging into my ribs."

"Hey! I ain't bony."

"But you've got bones, and they were making me uncomfortable. If you don't like this you can just put your arm on the counter behind us."

"I mean, it's not bad," he says, somehow affecting a shrug without once detaching from your shoulders. You snuggle up against him so you can see his D.D.D. screen. 

"Why'd ya make me get yours if you weren't gonna use it?" he mumbles, but it doesn't really sound like complaint.

"I just set a timer. Does it bother you?"

"Nah." His arm slips a little lower around your neck as you draw closer.

Your demon is just scrolling through his Devilgram feed, mainly looking at dumb videos and laughing at the ridiculous things his brothers have posted. Asmo and Satan at a cafe somewhere downtown; a short video of Belphie falling off a couch from a dead sleep and rolling a surprising distance; a screeching in the hallways that's revealed to be Levi, in his room, staring at something on his computer screen. And there are a _surprising_ number of cat videos. 

He saves every single one.

"What?" he asks, catching your inquisitive look. "It's not like I'm savin' 'em for Satan later, okay? I can like cats too!"

"I know," you say, letting him believe he's covered up a blunder that you hadn't been considering. He grunts, turning back to the images of tiny balls of fur clambering clumsily all over each other. His smile is all happy and soft, and you notice that his bookmark collection is named '4 Four'. 

He's not fooling anyone.

You take a closer look when he saves the next video. All his collections are named with numbers: '3 Nerd Shit', '6 Food stuff', '5 Pretty'. He keeps things for all his brothers.

You melt against him, butter on the pan. He's always thinking about his family. He just loves them _so_ much, even if he can't quite bring himself to admit it in so many words. Warmth is seeping through you, too much heat when you're pressed against Mammon; that living furnace.

They're so lucky to have him.

An overly vibrant saccharine pop-backed promotional video for something anime related pops up on the screen and Mammon scowls. And saves it anyway.

You have literally never been this attracted to anyone in your life.

"Hey," you say, and he grunts, not looking up from his screen. His face is still so _sweet_. 

"Hmm?"

It comes out (mostly) by accident. "Can I suck your dick?"

You've surprised even yourself, but the transition on his face from gentle to instantly combusting is so hilarious the embarrassment doesn't linger. He gapes at you, his D.D.D. dropped somewhere on the floor.

"WHAT?!?"

It explodes out of him all at once, so loud at least one of his brothers must have heard. You wonder if you can convince him to say yes before someone actually comes to check up on you.

"Did I stutter?" You're enjoying yourself now, stepping into his space. More devious than the devil. There's no real reason to take it back, now that you've said it. "I. Would like. To suck. Your dick." Your finger tapping against his chest, punctuating your words and moving downwards.

He's frozen underneath you, an animal caught in a trap. "Y-ya can't just SAY stuff like that!" But he makes no move to escape.

"You're right, I'm sorry." (You're not). You feel the briefest uncoiling beneath you before you flatten your hand at the low muscle above his waistband. Step even closer and look up at him through lowered lashes. "Let me suck you off pretty please?"

You can feel him tensing underneath you, the twitch of his pants as his body shifts the fabric, responding to your invitation. Your mouth is already watering. Even through his shades you can see him, staring down at you, riveted. So _adorably_ flustered.

But you leave your hands hovering just over the growing bulge. You aren't going to force him. 

It's a stand-off. He breaks first, trembling with the effort of keeping still. "Are you really gonna . . ." Can't bring himself to say it.

"You haven't answered my question." You wiggle your fingers, not quite touching the fabric. He makes a strange aborted movement, just barely keeping from bumping up into your touch. "I can't do anything with out a yes."

"YES." He turns even redder at his enthusiasm and averts his gaze, bashful. "I, I mean uh, if ya _really_ want . . ." 

"I don't want to make you do something you're uncomfortable with." You make to draw away and his hand shoots out, circles around your wrist.

"Wait!" He won't look you in the eyes. "I. I want to."

And then he's nearly stumbling over you as you drop reckless to your knees, still holding on. You barely manage to slow your fall enough not to jar the bone, already working at his belt, the fly of his jeans. Yanking them down with almost embarrassing excitement. Mammon huffs a laugh, disbelieving. "Ya want me that badly, huh?"

"I was going crazy." You press in as he sputters, nose against the damp fabric of his briefs. Even the smell of him alone is heady, calls up a feral hunger that you're desperate to sate. You lick: a long, slow drag, taste cotton and detergent and the slightly sour tang of him. He shudders over you, hands floating, grasping at air.

You press against his hips, shepherding him until he hits the edge of the kitchen table. He latches back, immediate, knuckles already white. Fasten against him with your mouth, the fabric spreading, sucked around your teeth as you work desperately. He keens, caught off-guard. "Give—Give a guy some warnin'!"

You only hum, try to remove every last trace of him from his underwear.

"Wait! Wait, just—"

You pop off immediately, still _wanting_. Stare up at him without bothering to disguise your desire. He shivers, pausing for a moment to appreciate the full scope of it; almost bottomless. Then he hooks into the waistband of his briefs and forces them down.

His erection pops out, looking almost painfully hard. You lick your lips, you can't help it. He freezes, watching, as you dive back towards him, press a kiss against his dripping head that opens into a swallow. A single, brief _suck_ , just the tip before you release to cradle him in your hand. He's already throbbing.

You circle at his base with finger and thumb, tightening slowly until he whines.

"Sorry," you say, "but I want a little more time with you. You don't know how long I've been waiting."

"Waiting?" He sounds strangled. You can feel his hips lift briefly, bumping against the tight ring you've trapped him in. His cock is still leaking.

"Mm-hmm." You stick your tongue out, waiting just below that dangling drop. It splashes down, salty and bitter and delicious. There's another aborted thrust as you close your eyes and swallow.

"If I knew you were going to agree so easily I would have asked you sooner," you continue. You flick the tip of your tongue against him, eyes still closed. "Do you want to know all the things I imagined doing to you?"

He groans. " _Tell me._ "

He tastes _amazing._

"You know the very first time I saw you in your demon form, with all those pretty tattoos?"

"They're — _hah_ — they're birthmarks."

"Are they?" you say, surprised. You pop off his cock and he whines, your hand supplementing the friction. "They're nice." You hum for a moment, illustrate an example of your next point against his glans. "I wanted to lick them."

He groans, low. Jumps in your hand; clear approval. Something for you to think about, next time you get him all to yourself. You press a kiss against the tip, lap at it with your tongue. The muscles of his thighs are trembling.

You want to keep watching him. Lowering back further on your knees so you can press open-mouthed kisses against the underside of his shaft. His eyes are too big, almost amazed, that first returning touch punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. You travel downwards, your free hand cupping his balls. Suck gently while his cock taps light against your cheek. He's biting his lip, sharp canines digging into flesh.

You release him, suck the mess of your spit back into your mouth. That's no fun. You want to _hear_ him.

He's still pressing gently against your face, and you turn, nose into his skin. "Sometimes I touch myself when I think of you," you say casually against his shaft.

He moans, head falling back. "Oh _shit_."

"I've had to imagine it. The way you would feel—" a pause, as you run your tongue along his length, "the way you would _taste_." And then you part your lips, take him in fully to the base.

He hisses. Through slitted eyes you can see his knuckles turning white where they're still on the table, the wood splintering beneath the pressure. He wants to touch you _so bad._

You swallow, relax your throat so you don't gag when you feel his head hitting the back of it. He's sealed in, suction and heat and spit and some delicious flavour that's making you forget how you got here at all. You pull back, slow, _slow_ , let your tongue drag over every spare millimetre of his skin; a meal you want to appreciate down to the very last crumb. He shivers as you reach his head, your muscle swirling within the vault of your mouth. You hold there, lift your gaze so you can stare into his eyes.

He's still wearing his fucking glasses. "Hnnnng, _fuck!_ "

And then you drop back down. You've been patient for too long, and you've teased him enough. Moving faster, your hand releases its choke on his base, following your lips as you bob. A slick motion, everything slurping and loud, lubricated by a heavy volume of saliva and his own dribbling fluids. There's a _crack_ by your head as he breaks off a corner of the table, almost covered by his low and gasping moan. 

He flicks scattered shards of wood to the floor, wipes his hand sloppy against the shiny skin of his hip. Then grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls. You think, for a brief moment, that he's going to strip properly but he only rucks the fabric up into his mouth.

Oh, your sweet boy is so _loud_. Even making a conscious effort to muffle his moans, you can hear him over every other noise. You double down, even more eager, close your eyes as you concentrate on your task. Driving reckless to your goal, eager to finally, _finally_ have him pouring down your throat.

"MMmmm'gonna—!" is all the warning you get before he's trembling, chest heaving. Releasing in fitful spurts that are almost violent.

You fasten even tighter around him, feel him bumping up against you palate, your tongue. Swallow each discharge as it comes, as he shudders, bending over you, so sensitive at all this coveted sensation.

He pants, belatedly letting his hands rest on your shoulders, your head. Patting you gently as he mumbles half-coherent praise. "That was so . . . you were . . . _Fuck_."

He flops back against himself, already softening. Jerks, once, as you stare up at him and lick your lips. "Thanks. You were pretty good too."

"Oi, don't mess with me!" he snaps, but it lacks any real bite, disheveled and still riding a physical satisfaction. He groans when you lean in and press a kiss just above his cock that has it jumping, just slightly, back into anticipation. Drags a hand down his face to cover the blush that's flaring back into existence.

So he doesn't see you struggle back to standing (you were on your knees for a _while_ ), legs wobbling just slightly before you fall into his space. Trap his naked sex against the fabric of your torso as you lean in, hand finally flying off as he stares down at you in shock and you . . . Kiss him.

He gasps, mouth opening so you can press your tongue in, let him taste himself as you thread an arm around his neck and draw him close and close and impossibly closer. He grabs at your hair a little too hard, fists his hands and keeps you in place as he tries to seam himself against you. One of his legs locks awkwardly around your thigh, impeded by the pants still pulled around his knees. You can feel him reviving with every shared breath, the start of another erection grinding awkwardly against your stomach.

He only pulls back with a disgruntled huff when it becomes too uncomfortable for him to ignore. Drops his leg and spins you, nearly tripping, until you're the one backed against the surface. You start, barely avoiding the newly jagged edge.

He grabs you, fingers _digging_ into the apple of your ass. Words hot against your neck, every sentiment pressed into skin with an eager nuzzle. "Ya shoulda' said something. I could'a . . . Every time I slept in your room . . ."

He's desolate with all that wasted time. All those sleepovers when you could have been doing so much more than _sleep_.

"You would have ravaged me if I'd asked?"

"Yes!" he exclaims, far beyond his earlier awkward bashfulness. "I'da done anything ya wanted!"

He means it. You can feel the sincerity, the greedy anticipation. Walk your fingers casually down his neck, feeling each step of his spine. "Well. Now's as good a time as any."

The door clicks open right as he's slotting himself against you. You turn in unison as Lucifer takes a step into the room and freezes, his gaze landing on Mammon's. Bare. Ass.

There's a strangled breath of silence.

And then the swine in the oven explodes, the heavy iron door swinging down as boiling sauce coats every available surface. Mammon spins just enough to protect you from the brunt of the burns, thick globs sliding down the perfect curve at his hip, skin turning red but not blistering. It smells so good it's making your mouth water.

You want to eat it off him.

There's a pregnant pause where you lean up into his space, trace the line of his jaw with one hand. Where every other thought is eclipsed by how much you want to kiss him.

And then there's a muffled _tap_ on the messy floors and you both simultaneously remember that you are not alone. 

"MAMMOOOOOOONNNNNNNN!"

**Author's Note:**

> Everytime this idiot opens his mouth I want to stick my tongue in it.


End file.
